The Game is On
by Shake-My-Ass-to-The-Wind
Summary: This is my first fic! Don't hate me? Aight? Not really Johnlock or Mormor per-say, but there are hints! yay! It's basically what the title says, the game is on, and Sherlock is slowly going to find that John is the key. How far will he go to save his blogger? How far will his blogger go to save him? I suck at these, just read it? Rated T for language and violence, eventually!
1. Prologue

**A/N: I own nothing! Sherlock and John and Moriarty and Sebastian all belong to the lovely Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC woo! Like I said, first fic, so yeah. Reviews are appreciated, but not demanded(:**

Prologue: 

John stood in the middle of the room, tensed as he looked around himself at his surroundings and took in the posh furniture and fancy wall-paper, all a startling white. The only thing not white in the room was the couch, stained with a sharp, bright red splatter. Blood, John realised. He felt sick to his stomach as he stood completely still, afraid to move. He could feel _his _eyes on him; feel _his _breath down the back of his neck, hot and tickling, and John could most definitely feel the sniper pointed at him, feel the intensity of the long barrel and the gaze of the pale blue eyes, slicing John like a knife. John shuddered, fear welling in the pit of his stomach. He needed to find Sherlock, and John knew that he eventually would. He would find Sherlock alright; he would find Sherlock dead. John let out a wry laugh and immediately froze, tensing his muscles to the point of pain. _No, no, no_. He couldn't die now, not because of a stupid mistake. He _had _to find Sherlock, dead or alive. John waited, but he felt no pain, no bullet ripped through his body, not yet. John allowed his screaming muscles to relax, just a bit. Where was Sherlock? He needed to find Sherlock. John frowned, the impending doom in the air mixed with ominous atmosphere made the air thick, hard to breathe. His lungs ached for oxygen and John let out the breath he'd been holding, sucking in deeply, choking slightly on the sharp intake of air. _Calm down John_, he told himself. _Sherlock is fine_. But as if to mock him, suddenly, a sharp scream pierced the air. It cut the thick air like a knife and John spun around towards the scream; the scream of one certain Consulting Detective.

**A/N: Once again, reviews appreciated, but you don't have to. Cheers xx~**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Once again, I own nothing! Aside from Emanuel Harris, but whatever! This takes place prior to the prologue, as you will see xD enjoy and review if you want!**

Chapter One: 

John's legs burned and his lungs stung with each deep intake of the cold, English air. His feet thudding against the ground was the only noise in the darkened street aside from the loud claps of thunder. John winced as a sharp bolt of lightning struck the sky, illuminating the world in an eerie bluish glow. For a split second, John could see the whole alleyway lit up brightly, but then the bolt popped and it was gone, leaving the darkness to envelope him once again. He jumped slightly as another loud boom erupted, seeming to rattle John's cold bones with the force. He shook his head, putting it down and charging forward, trying to go a bit faster. _Bloody hell Sherlock_, he thought with malice. _Where are you?_ John's breathing was labourious, the cold air stinging his lungs as he continued to run, focused on the fleeting figure in front of him. Emmanuel Harris, a bomber, member of Moriarty's network, killed 17 in a bombing last week; John ran through the details as he continued to run, feeling Harris getting farther and farther ahead. _Fuck_, John thought as he looked ahead and didn't see any traces of the fleeting figure in front of him. _Sherlock's gonna be livid_. John sighed and pulled out his mobile, punching in Sherlock's number. Where was Sherlock, anyway? John remembered Sherlock screaming at John to track Harris; telling John that he would lead them to the center of this network, and then Sherlock had gone off down the opposite way, screaming something about another source. John sighed as the phone rang out.

"Bloody perfect, Sherlock." John felt anger burn inside of him. How had he let Harris get away? John hoped that Sherlock had found his other source, because John had no idea what to do now. He turned around and started off back the way he'd ran, carrying the strange feeling that someone was following him.

Another clap of thunder sounded, followed by a sharp bolt of lightning, illuminating the alley completely in a bright, white light. That's when John saw him; the lean figure was perched on a fire escape ladder, his tattered coat hanging off of him loosely. John froze, knowing full well that Harris was perched a mere 20 feet above him, a small rifle pointed right at John's head. John let his hand trail to the gun at his side, strapped into the holster. John was an excellent marksman, but he had to get the pistol out, turn, shoot at a target he could barely see, and all of this had to be done without Harris noticing, yeah right. John felt a feeling of dread pass over him; he was most likely about to die. He had never thought about dying, it would've only bogged him down during his years in service, no time for 'what ifs' in the military, but now he was standing here, facing almost certain death. Where was Sherlock? God, John would give anything to have someone, anyone show up and save him right about now. John had felt fear before, but this feeling was worse than fear. Knowing you were going to die soon wasn't exactly pleasant and John felt sick to his stomach. _No John, vomiting will not help you in this situation_, he told himself, his doctor instincts taking over as he took deep breathes in and out and focused on something other than the deep churning in his stomach.

Another flash of white light, and John immediately turned to see that Harris had moved up the ladder a bit, closer to being able to pull himself up on the roof. John shuddered and gagged, almost getting sick. _No John, stay calm. Sherlock will find you_. John sighed and pressed a hand to his stomach, swallowing the feeling down. _But what if he doesn't? _His thoughts mocked him, putting down any hope he established. _The odds that he finds you before Harris takes you out are about 0 to 1. Don't be stupid, John. _John's hands were sweaty and shaking slightly as he stood there, wondering why Harris didn't just end this already. John felt a wave of nervous nausea hit him as the thought of Harris pulling the trigger; the shot going straight through John's heart entered his mind. John couldn't hold it back any longer, and he leaned over and vomited weakly. He heard a barking laugh above him; Harris enjoying watching John suffer. John cursed softly and wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. What could Harris possibly be waiting for? Another thought entered John's mind now, of Sherlock finding John shot down, dead. John winced and then felt hurt flow through his body; would Sherlock even care? John felt mildly sick again and pressed his lips together tightly. _No more time for weakness_.

The minutes ticked by and the rain began to fall, accompanying the loud thunder and lightning wonderfully. Soon, John was soaking wet and shivering further against the cold, his jacket clinging to him uncomfortably, and the reduced visibility further ruling out any thoughts of him ever hitting Harris before he shot. John was getting annoyed and angry. Harris was toying with him, making him wait like this, making sure John was uncomfortable and half dead before he delivered the shot; some people were so cruel. John was lost in his own thoughts when suddenly; a clanging noise from above him caught his attention. He strained his ears to hear the noise above the rain; the distinct noise of metal against metal, and was that a grunt? John tensed his muscles and drew his gun, waiting for Harris to come down. Why would Harris be coming down to John's level? He'd had a perfect shot, had been in the position to easily kill John, so why wasn't he? _It's all a game John_, he told himself. John remembered Jim calling it "this little game of ours" at the pool, talking to Sherlock, and now John realised that this was most definitely part of the game as well. Why wouldn't Jim just knock John off already? It would probably mess Sherlock up just a little bit, because Sherlock cared about John, didn't he? John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose; his friendship with Sherlock shouldn't be his main concern right now.

John could see Harris now in the faint, murky light of the alley as he made his way towards John. John shuddered; Harris was stalking towards him, gun at his side, shoulders hunched. What was going on here? John tightened the hold on his gun and pointed it straight ahead, feeling the adrenaline pump through his body.

"Hello, Dr. Watson." Harris' voice was deep, husky, mocking as he addressed John. "I would like it if you could please drop your gun. There won't be any shooting done tonight. Just you wait for that, Johnny-Boy." John felt his whole body jolt sickeningly. Jim was the only one who called him that. Was Harris a closer member of Moriarty's network than he and Sherlock had originally gauged?

"W-who are you?" John's voice sounded odd, very weak and afraid. "What're we doing here? Where's Sherlock? Where's Moriarty?" John needed answers, because he had no idea what the hell was going on.

"Patience, patience Johnny-Boy," Harris chuckled. "Jim was right; you are a feisty one. But you're weak Doctor Watson, and you know it." Harris chuckled again before tucking his rifle against his side and giving John a curt bow. "Until next time, good doctor." With those words, Harris turned and ran out of the alley, his feet splashing up water around him. John fell to his knees, the hours of standing finally getting to him as he dropped down into the cold puddles on the street. John's body shook with the cold and he vaguely realised that he couldn't feel his fingers or toes, and that his body was shaking uncontrollably. He barely managed to pull his cellular out to punch in Sherlock's number. _Please pick up, Sherlock. _After a few rings, Sherlock's voice floated into John's ear.

"John? John? Where are you?" John winced as Sherlock's voice came out loudly into his ear, or maybe John's hearing was just messed up; he couldn't really tell.

"In an alley, s'cold," John mumbled tiredly. He really just wanted to lie down. He was so tired and everything hurt. "I wanna sleep."

"No John! No," Sherlock said forcefully. "I'm coming to get you John, but I need you to tell me where you are. Get up and find a street sign." John didn't want to get up though, he wanted to go to sleep, and he tried to tell Sherlock this, but all that came out were incoherent mumbles.

"Sh'lock. Why didn't you answer earlier?" John asked as he slowly got to his feet, ignoring his lightheadedness as he began to stumble out of the dark alley, the rain still sprinkling down, but lighter now than it had been earlier.

"I was busy." Sherlock sounded annoyed and bored, like usual, and it made John mad.

"You could have come and gotten me, Sh'lock. What could have been so engaging tha you couldn' have come and gotten me?" John could hear the anger seeping into his tired mumbles and took a deep breath. He needed to concentrate on walking and not passing out, because black dots had begun to dance in front of his vision, and the whole world seemed to lurch and swirl into one big black mess.

"Just find a street sign John," Sherlock muttered, his voice sounding tired. John sighed, he just wanted to sit down and rest, but Sherlock wouldn't let him, so he continued on until he almost ran into the street sign. John frowned and looked up, squinting to see the words etched onto the metal sign.

"Whittaker Street," John said slowly. He leaned against the pole and sucked in a ragged breath; he was so _tired_.

"Good John, good," Sherlock said softly. "Now sit at the base of the pole John and I'll be there soon. Don't move John." Sherlock sounded like he was talking to a small child, and John almost laughed; Sherlock sounded so funny when he tried to be nice like this.

"Kay Sh'lock," John slurred, feeling his eyelids getting heavier. "Can I sleep now?" John yawned and leaned his head against the cold metal of the pole, wincing as it came into contact with his head, feeling cold like ice.

"No John, stay awake." Sherlock's voice was forceful again, and John frowned.

"But Sh'lock," he began.

"NO," Sherlock said, cutting him off. John frowned and shifted his position on the ground, feeling the water seep into the seat of his pants. "Can you please hurry," John heard Sherlock say, his voice sounding distant.

"Who're ya talking to?" John asked, his voice groggy.

"The cab driver John, we're almost there." John just nodded, too tired to speak. Instead, he went over the events of today in his head. He remembered Sherlock finally finding Harris, finally realising that he was the bomber, the centre of this one particular website. Sherlock had found everything he could about Harris and had plotted out the perfect trap to catch him.

_"We'll lure him to us John, you'll see. We'll make him an offer he won't resist. Moriarty won't let him. We'll give ourselves to him, but of course, we won't really. God no, we'll chase him to his network centre. He'll think he's being clever, drawing us into a trap, when really we're finding everything out and getting him. It's perfect. If only people weren't so stupid and dull John, then they'd understand the fine art of bluffing."_ John smiled crudely at the thought, how had everything gone downhill? The main question bothering him was where had Sherlock gone? Why had hedeviated from the plan? John shrugged; his head was beginning to pound steadily and all these thoughts were starting to cause more harm than good. John shifted in his seat, trying to shake the tired fog from his brain as he stared ahead, hoping that Sherlock would hurry. He could hear Sherlock yelling at him into the phone, but he ignored it and held the phone in his lap. His thoughts flickered back to Emanuel Harris, and John felt sick again. Why hadn't Harris killed him?

_"There won't be any shooting done tonight. Just you wait for that, Johnny-Boy."_ Harris' words came back to John and John swallowed against the fear that burned in his stomach. He'd gotten away once, but Harris obviously wasn't done with him. John could still see Harris' muscular form in his mind, his eyes standing out brightly against the velvet blackness. John shuddered and pressed his hand against his churning stomach. _C'mon John, calm down. Sherlock's coming for you and you'll be able to sleep soon_. John smiled at the thought, sleep. He dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes, still ignoring the annoying shouting from his phone. He let his tired muscles slowly relax and was on the verge of sleep when a rough hand was suddenly around his arm, hauling him upwards.

"John, I am going to kill you," he heard Sherlock hiss into his ear as he was hauled towards the bright lights of a cab. Sherlock shoved John roughly into the back seat of the cab and got in beside him, shutting the door roughly. The sound grinded on John's headache and he moaned softly. "Why wouldn't you speak to me? And why did you let yourself begin to fall asleep when I clearly told you no?" Sherlock's words flew out of his mouth quickly and angrily, and he sat beside John rigidly, his eyes staring straight ahead. "Don't do something so stupid again, John. You're a doctor for Christ's sake. You could have died!" Sherlock was breathing heavily, his body tensed. _I almost died twice tonight, hm, not bad_, John thought to himself with a wry laugh. "This is not funny John," Sherlock snapped, turning to face John. His sea-foam green eyes were anguished looking, and it made John shiver.

"Sorry, sorry," John muttered, his eyelids drooping again. "I've just been through a lot tonight Sherlock and I'm just a little exhausted." John turned away from Sherlock, annoyed that he wouldn't just shut up.

"I'm uh, I'm sorry John," Sherlock whispered after a few minutes of silence, and John turned his head quickly to stare at Sherlock.

"Oh, um, ok, ok." John fell silent and closed his eyes against the bright lights of the world, his headache getting worse.

"John," he heard Sherlock whisper, nudging John's shoulder gently.

"Mmm," John hummed, not wanting to raise his head or speak because of the pain.

"I am truly sorry that I wasn't there this afternoon." Sherlock's voice was soft, barely a whisper now, and John heard the quiet agony in every word.

"S-Sherlock," John said quickly, raising his head and wincing as the whole cab seemed to tilt and twirl. "It's fine. I survived, didn't I? Harris was never even going to shoot me." John leaned back in the seat and studied Sherlock closely. He looked paler than usual and were those tears on his cheeks? John shuddered, what was wrong with Sherlock? "Sherlock, are you ok?"

"Fine John, oh look, here we are. Let's get inside John, we've got much to discuss." With that, Sherlock was out of the cab and up the steps of 221b with a flourish of his coat and a quick turn on his heels, leaving John in the cab, brow furrowed. Something was very wrong with Sherlock, and John needed to find out, because Sherlock was part of the game too, and John was certain that today had been as eventful for Sherlock as it had been for John. _The game, is on_, John thought with a grimace as he exited the cab and followed the world's only Consulting Detective up to their flat.

**A/N: once again, reviews appreciated! The next chapter will be in Sherlock's POV and we'll see a little Johnlock fluff yay! Cheers xx~**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: hello to the few people who are following this, I love you guys by the way! I hope you enjoy... some slight Johnlock fluff yay! Cheers xx~**

Chapter Two: 

Sherlock sat in his armchair, the steaming mug in his hand, stinging his cold hands, he ignored it. Thoughts flew through his head and he reached up to gingerly stroke his throat, remembering the feeling of _his _hands wrapped there, squeezing. Sherlock shuddered and set his cuppa down, the stinging of his hands annoying him. He let his hands trail back to his throat, and he shuddered again. _No, stop Sherlock. Stop this, this, fear_. Fear, the word repulsed him. Fear was an emotion reserved for the weak, not for him, not for the great Sherlock Holmes. He looked down at his hands and observed with a slight interest that they were shaking. He chuckled and raised his hand up, turning it around in the air, observing the shaking of it, the slight trembling of the long fingers.

"Stop," he muttered aloud, sticking his hands in between his thighs so he wouldn't have to look at them anymore. He felt a shiver dance up and down his spine as _his _words came back to him, that sing-song voice mocking him. He replayed their conversation from earlier in his mind, wishing he could shut out the mental audio.

_"And how are you today Sherrrrrlyyy?" _

_ "Fine." _

_ "Well, that's splendidddd. But oh, oh no, where is your little pet? Where has Doctor Watson gone off to now, Sherly?" _

_ "Tracking someone, not of your concern." _

_ "Oh, but it IS. Everything is my concern, Sherly, especially you and your wittle bitty pet. Dreadfully loyal, isn't he? Must be nice." _

_ "What must be nice?" _

_ "Having someone you can pretend to be friends with. Yes, how nice that must be. Is he a tad bit better than the skull?" _

_ "Shut up." _

_ "Ooooo, feisty! I see you have quite the attachment to your wittle pet. Hm, too bad." _

_ "What? What are you doing to him?" _

_ "Calm down, Jesus. I'm not going to hurt a single hair on Doctor Watson's head. Not yet, at least." _

_ Sherlock had growled softly. _

_ "Oooo, daddy gets it now. Yessss. EXCELLENT." _

_ "W-what do you mean?" _

_ "God, you're not as smart as they tell me. Johnny-Boy, Sherly, it's all about him, isn't it? Losing him would break you, wouldn't it?" _

_ "John's just my blogger." _

_ "Yes, YES, and you'd be lost without your blogger, Sherly." _

Sherlock flinched and closed his eyes, massaging his temples, pushing the memory away. He could vaguely hear John upstairs, cursing loudly. Sherlock frowned, but stayed still; figuring John would want to be alone at the moment. He swallowed hard and grimaced, his throat still sore from the pressure inflicted on it earlier. His hands trailed to his lips now, caressing the cool surface, remembering the feeling of _his _lips, forceful and filthy against his own.

_"I have plans for you, Sherly," he had hissed through his bared teeth, pressing more pressure onto Sherlock's neck. "Now hold still, daddy promises it won't hurt one bit." Then he'd leaned his head down, grinning manically as he pressed his thin lips to Sherlock's, pressing down harder and harder as Sherlock had flailed. Sherlock remembered the blackness closing in, his brain begging for oxygen as the thin lips had pressed down hungrily onto his own. _

Sherlock blinked and shook his head violently.

"Stop it," he said to himself, getting up quickly and knocking his cuppa over onto the floor. He ignored it and began to pace the room, hands twitching. Twitching? No, his hands didn't twitch; his body never betrayed him like this. A small moan escaped his slightly parted lips, and his hand flew to his mouth, covering it in shock. _Moaning? What have I been reduced to? _He continued to pace feverishly through the living area, contemplating on whether or not he should go get John. They had much to discuss, but John was tired and Sherlock wasn't so sure that he could hold himself together at the present moment. Each memory floated through to his mind, each bringing on an onslaught of different emotions, emotions Sherlock wasn't used to feeling.

_"That was nice, now wasn't it Sherly?" _

_ "I'll be going now, thank you." _

_ "Ohhhh, NO you won't. We have some more to discuss, Sherly." _

_ "Make it quick." _

_ "Hm, rude… Annnnywayyyy, let's discuss your wittle pet some more, shall we?" _

_ "Friend." _

_ "Oh, riiiigghhht, friend, ok well, let's discuss your friend." _

_ "I'm listening?" _

_ "Yes, well, how much does this little friend mean to you? Hm? You know Sherly, you're not the only one who likes experiments." _

"Get out of my head," Sherlock moaned softly, dragging his feet as he went to lie on the couch. He curled into a ball, tucking his knees to his chest as he tried to relax. _Relax Sherlock; it's all over, for now._ He trembled and whipped his phone out as a slight buzz from it traveled up his thigh.

**How's the pet now? Still tired from **

** the run in with my favourite sniper? **

** ~J.M. **

_Favourite sniper? Harris is his favourite sniper? _Sherlock sat up quickly, shaking the blood rush away as he stared at the wall, wracking his mind for possible ideas. He'd never heard of Harris before the bombing, how had he not caught Moriarty's favourite sniper before now? _I mean yes, it is 'him'__and he's the largest crime lord ever, but that is no excuse Sherlock. God dammit. _He got up quickly and hurried to the bottom of the stairs.

"John, get down here now," Sherlock shouted as he turned back around and began to pace the room again, feeling fear bubble up inside of him. _Fear? No, you feel no fear, _he assured himself, shaking any mention of the word fear out of his mind. He continued to pace, waiting for John to come down; he needed John to tell him everything about Harris, everything. "John," he screamed again, stalking up the stairs now. He reached the top of the stairs and shoved the door open all in one motion, already moving to flip the lights on, but stopped as he took in the scene in front of him. John was asleep leaning against the wall, only half clothed in his pajamas, wet towel still thrown across his bare shoulder from his shower. "Oh John," Sherlock murmured as he moved silently over to his sleeping blogger, removing the towel off of his shoulder and slipping a shirt out of the wardrobe over his head gently. Sherlock took in John's sleeping appearance, noting how much younger and more carefree he looked in his sleep. Sherlock smiled as he slipped his arms under John's armpits and quickly dragged his heavy form to the bed and grunted as he pulled John into the bed, tucking the blanket up around him tenderly. Sherlock moved back from the bed and studied John, now turning and mumbling softly; Sherlock tensed, ready to wake John if this turned into a nightmare.

"I just need to find Sherlock," John mumbled, and Sherlock tensed. "I have to save him. Stop Jim, please," John begged, his voice distressed. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and moved over to John and shoved his shoulder roughly.

"John, John, wake up John." John rolled over in his sleep and mumbled something before resuming his light snoring. Sherlock sighed and sunk down, sitting down on the end of John's bed. _I can't let Moriarty get to him. He thinks he has to save me, no, I have to save him_. Sherlock sighed, giving his sleeping blogger one last once over before turning and going out the door silently, slipping back down the stairs without so much as a creak of the floorboards.

Sherlock threw himself down onto the couch and stared at the ceiling, going to the small corner of his mind palace reserved for John. John, the word tugged at Sherlock's heart in a way nothing ever had before. Sherlock didn't love John romantically, not really, he just loved John. Loved was in fact, a striking understatement. He needed John like he needed air, though he'd never admit it. He absolutely couldn't let Jim get his hands on John. Sherlock would die before giving up John's life so easily, and now that he knew the game was on, he had to be ready.

**Please review, if you want haha. I'm not gonna beg you for it, though it would be nice... have a lovely day! xx~**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey! Sorry for being a bit late, lots of homework and internet mishaps! But here it is! Reviews appreciated! **

Chapter Three: 

John awoke in his bed, stiff and sore, feeling worse than he'd felt in a long time. Everything seemed to ache, and his head pounded steadily; apparently the goodnight's sleep hadn't helped. He sighed as he rolled out of bed gingerly, choosing to go downstairs to check on Sherlock before getting in the shower. The flat was eerily silent, not the good silent like it normally was; this was a bad silence, a scary silence. John rubbed his neck, feeling nerves bubble up in his stomach. He paused a few steps from the bottom, not sure if he wanted to find what he was going to find when he walked into the main area of the flat.

What he found was a note, taped the fridge, obviously in Sherlock's beautiful calligraphy. It read,

_Dear John, _

_ I've gone to investigate Mr. Harris. You were asleep and looking rather ill, so I left you to rest. Text me after you get this note. We have much to discuss. _

John scratched his head and felt his stomach drop at the mention of Emanuel Harris. John shuddered and took the stairs quickly back up to his room to get his mobile.

** Got the note, where are you? **

** ~J.W**

John began to pace the room, trying to distract himself by cleaning and picking up nonexistent messes as he waited for Sherlock's reply. He checked his phone again before setting it down and going downstairs to make tea. He busied himself with making himself a nice cuppa, but was barely able to pay attention as his mind cooked up all the horrible things that could be keeping Sherlock from answering him.

"Please be ok," John muttered as he finished making his tea and took it upstairs, sloshing it slightly as he hurried up the stairs two at a time. He set the tea down and immediately picked up his phone, nearly squealing in delight at the message notification.

**Not of your concern. **

** Harris isn't who we think he is**

** be on the lookout, just in case**

** ~S.H **

John sucked in a deep, irritated breath. _What does he mean not of my concern? Yes it bloody is. God, I hate when he goes off and does this. _

**I'd say it is of my concern **

** the guy tried to bugging kill **

** me yesterday. What do you mean Sherlock? **

** Where are you? Seriously. **

** ~J.W**

John's hands shook slightly with irritated anger, and as desperately as he tried, he couldn't suppress the little bit of hurt that he was feeling. He hated when Sherlock left him out of things, especially things concerning Moriarty.

**Not of your concern. **

** ~S.H **

John almost threw the phone out the window, but decided instead to slam it down onto the bed before going and throwing himself into the shower. He muttered the whole time about how stupid and annoying and unfair Sherlock was being, the hurt radiating off of him.

"I'm The Great and Powerful Sherlock_ Sodding_ Holmes and _I _don't need friends! No one ever gets to be involved in my affairs, not even my best friend! But ha, like I just said, I don't need friends!" John slammed the water off and got out of the shower, throwing things around and uttering several curses about his favourite Consulting Detective. He walked into his room and was about to drop his towel to pull on some boxers when he noticed Sherlock, sitting on his bed, thumbing out a text with a cold stare on his face.

"Hullo John, hurry up please. We have a visit to pay." John's mouth fell open as he stared at Sherlock, anger burning in his chest.

"I won't bloody go with you," he growled, grabbing his clothes and going back into the bathroom, slamming the door shut obnoxiously hard.

"Great, get dressed and meet me downstairs in five minutes. We'll be gone for the better part of the day, so grab something to eat if you want it."

"I won't go, Sherlock," John called again as he pulled on his jumper angrily.

"Yes you will," Sherlock said calmly, his voice right outside the door. John cringed and finished getting ready, uttering a few more curses after he noticed Sherlock leave. _He's such a sodding, royal bastard, but he's right. I will always follow you, Sherlock Holmes, _John thought with a wry smile.

ɸɸɸɸ

John sat back in the taxi's seat, staring at Sherlock as he thumbed out a text feverishly, his mouth drawn into a tight scowl.

"Quit staring at me John, it's annoying," Sherlock muttered as he shoved his phone back in his pocket. John rolled his eyes and turned to stare out the window, wondering where the hell they could possibly be going.

"Stop the taxi," Sherlock said suddenly, pulling the door open and shoving the cabbie the fare before beginning to briskly walk off.

"Sherlock- thanks for the ride, mate- Sherlock, wait!" John called as he clambered out of the taxi and began to jog, forcing his short legs to carry him to the rapidly walking figure in front of him.

"We don't have time for waiting John. I have a theory that we are constantly being followed and monitored, so I arranged to meet Mycroft secretly and we have to hurry before our pursuer realises that I have set up a trap for him." John felt his head swim with all the new information, but just decided to shut up and follow Sherlock for now; he could get answers later.

John hurriedly jogged after Sherlock as he took long strides down the road towards a run down, abandoned looking warehouse of some sort.

"Sherlock, where the hell are we?" But Sherlock just waved his hand to signify silence, so John dropped the subject with a sigh. Sherlock led him into the building through a rather nasty looking doorframe. Rust coated the hinges and mold was climbing up the sides, giving the frame a brownish black hue. John ducked around a pile of wooden boards, and by the looks of it, it had at one time been a shelf of some sort. The room was wide and dirt covered the floor and choked the air, swirling lazily in the murky light that sneaked in through the busted out window, reflecting oddly off of the shards of glass hanging on loosely in the window frames, looking like sharp, jagged icicles. John nearly stumbled over the remains of a wooden barrel as he got distracted, fixedly watching the dust sift through the air, looking strangely beautiful.

"Come along John, no time to gawk. We have important business." Sherlock pulled on John's arm and set him towards a flight of creaky, sagging looking stairs.

"Nope,_ absolutely_ not," John muttered, shaking his head vigorously. The stairs looked ancient, and John really didn't want to fall down a story and break a few bones today. "I didn't survive the war to fall to my death." John began to walk away, but stopped at the firm hand on his shoulder.

"No one's falling to their death today, John," Sherlock said tightly, staring right into John's eyes. John felt intrigued as he stared back into those frowning, determined sea-foam green eyes, wondering what was whirring around in that brain of his.

"How does it feel to be brilliant, Sherlock?" John asked suddenly, not being able to stop himself from asking. He frowned at his own stupid mistake and broke the intelligent gaze, blushing at the floor.

"Well how does it feel to be human?" John gasped slightly and raised his head to protest, but Sherlock was already bounding up the shaky steps, black coat billowing out behind him. _God dammit Sherlock, you are human. I know it better than anyone. _John sighed as he started up the stairs, going quickly and holding his breath the whole time. Once he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he let the breath out and sucked in deeply, choking slightly on the even thicker dust in the room.

"Sherlo-" John started to say, but stopped himself as he saw the two Holmes brothers, embracing in a tight hug. As soon as the brothers realised John was in the room, they released each other quickly and awkwardly shuffled away, both pretending that it hadn't happened.

"Hello John," Mycroft nodded his head with that strange look on his face; not quite a smile, but not quite a frown.

"Hey," he said, raising an eyebrow at the elder Holmes, who quickly turned his attention elsewhere. "Ok, so, what're we doing here?" John's patience was beginning to wear thin, and he was ready to be caught up with the current situation.

"Like I said," Sherlock snapped, turning to face John with a scowl. "We're here to meet Mycroft secretly to throw off our pursuer and to simply meet with Mycroft." He paused before continuing, "I have a favour to ask of you, dearest brother." Sherlock turned to Mycroft, who gave Sherlock a strained "smile."

"Which would be?"

"Give me all the information you can on Sebastian Moran." Mycroft's eyes widened for just a second, before he composed himself and replaced his usual smug look back onto his face.

"Why of course, dear brother. I'll email you the files?"

"Sure," Sherlock muttered, turning on his heel abruptly, grabbing John's arm and tugging him towards the stairs.

"Good day, brother!" Mycroft called as Sherlock dragged John down the stairs roughly, muttering for him to keep moving quickly.

"Sherlock, Sherlock!" John shouted as Sherlock continued to drag him towards the rusted doorframe, their exit now. "Let go of me and slow down! What's going on? Are you bugging mental? You're hurting my sodding shoulder." John gasped as Sherlock shoved him away, roughly pushing the heel of his hand into John's shoulder. John stumbled back and fell onto his bum, sending dust flying into the air.

"Don't call me mental, John," Sherlock shouted, towering over John and piercing him with that icy glare of his. John shrank back, feeling a fear of Sherlock for the first time since their meeting.

"I-I'm so sorry Sherlock," John whispered, watching as Sherlock's glare softened slightly at John's words. "I'm just confused as to what is going on and as to whom Sebastian Moran is. Oh and our pursuer? What is all this, Sherlock? What's happening?" Sherlock's eyes crinkled into a wry smile as he pulled John up gently.

"Sebastian Moran is Moriarty's favourite sniper, aka, our pursuer. Now let's go, he'll be here soon. We can't keep him confused all day. He's keen and observant, and he's dangerous, very dangerous."

"But wait," John mumbled once they were outside the warehouse, jogging lightly down the streets. "How haven't we come into contact with Moran before if he's so important to Moriarty?" Sherlock laughed a sarcastic bark before slowing and turning towards John.

"Sebastian Moran is 'Emanuel Harris,' John," Sherlock said slowly. John's mouth fell open as this began to sink in and a bullet whizzed past his right ear and John fell to the ground, wincing at the pain and the shouts of Sherlock above him as Moran ran into the alleyway, ice blue eyes flashing.

**A/N: Thanks for reading and reviews appreciated so that I can, you know, know if you guys actually enjoy this or not! Haha, have a lovely rest of your day. Cheers xx~**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello all, glad you're enjoying this and the reviews are very appreciated! xx~**

Chapter Four:

Sherlock spun around in horror to stare at Moran, rifle held in a military grip, resting against his shoulder, butt in his hand, smug grin on his face. His short cut, eggshell-white blonde hair gleamed in the late afternoon sun, and his ice blue eyes stared daggers: cold, hard, murderous daggers.

"Well good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," Moran called out loudly, a sneer on his face.

"Afternoon," Sherlock replied shortly, turning back to glance at John. _Pale, shaky, medium levels of pain, a little shocked, trying hard not to get sick, wanting to help, afraid of Moran. John shouldn't have to be afraid of this vulgar piece of flesh. _Sherlock managed to tear his attention from John on the ground back to Moran, his face turned slightly so that Sherlock could easily see the man's defined chin and nose, his face cold and hard.

"You see, Sherly, you're in the way. Were you aware of that?" Moran let out a low throaty chuckle and Sherlock cringed as he heard John vomiting behind him. He spun around and immediately dropped to his knees by John's head, checking his vitals quickly.

"Get the fuck back up there," John whispered, the fierce, fighting light shinning bright in his eyes, causing his blue eyes to stand out excellently from his pale skin. Sherlock nodded at John as John squeezed his hand firmly, surprisingly firm for his current state, but then not really because this was John Watson, and he was strong. Sherlock felt an overwhelming sense of pride well up into his chest, the feeling choking him and pressing on his chest. _This is why I avoid emotions, they're just so odd. _Sherlock stood slowly, giving John a tight smile before turning to face Moran once again.

"Aw how cayuuuttteeee," Moran snickered, sneering at Sherlock before spitting at his feet. During the time Sherlock had been distracted with John, Moran had gotten closer. If Moran were to stretch his rifle out, it would just brush Sherlock's shoulder.

"Thank you," Sherlock responded stiffly. He let his eyes travel over Moran, deducing him quickly, adding up the facts in his head swiftly. _Excellent sportsman for that kind of shot. Look how he holds his gun and himself, suggests military, his eyes stare right into mine and he holds his head up, nose turned slightly into the air, used to showing command. That suggests a higher level in the forces, colonel, maybe. Short hair cut definitely suggests military, a bit like John's, but doesn't suit him as well as it suits John, hm, no. Dirty and beat up clothes, getting into messy situations often, but you'd suspect Moriarty's head sniper to be dressed a bit sharper, shows that he resists authority, showing again that he's used to being in charge. Doesn't value material things, could have gotten that from the military, or from childhood. Doesn't matter. _Sherlock snapped out of his trance, all those thoughts having flowed through his head in a mere 45 seconds. Moran was staring at him with a frown pulling down at his mouth, the tough skin wrinkling into an unattractive scowl.

"You know why I'm here Sherly?" Moran asked, staring straight into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock smiled as an annoyed frown passed through Moran's features before he could cover it up. _He expected me to cower and look away, how cute_. Sherlock tensed as he heard John moan behind him, and it took all of his effort not to fling himself onto the ground to help his fallen blogger.

"Of course," Sherlock said coolly, mind racing for all the possible reasons, but then stopped as he realised that Moran was going to tell him so he could feel clever and boast about him and Jim's plan. _How conceited_, Sherlock thought with a smile.

"Well, why then?" Moran grinned, blue eyes flashing. _Oh how he enjoys a good game as much as his master. _

"I-well, I don't actually know," Sherlock said simply. He smiled wryly as John made a incredulous choking sound behind him, obviously not picking up on Moran and his little prideful game.

"To mess with you, of course," Moran said, a smile lighting up his face. The smile looked unnatural there, and it made Moran look more sinister than he did with a scowl. "Rough your blogger up and freak you out." Moran winked at Sherlock wickedly. "You're lost without your blogger." Sherlock felt the whole world freeze and his blood turned to ice. _Is Moran really going to shoot John? No, that would be too easy_, he assured himself, but he felt the blood drain from his face as Moran lifted his rifle back up to his shoulder and stepped away from Sherlock, moving around until he stood in a few feet away from John, rifle trained on the man's stomach.

"Are you going to kill him? Isn't that too easy?" Sherlock asked, working to keep his voice calm.

"I don't care about too easy; I just care about fun." Moran grinned as he shifted his weight into a proper stance and stuck his nose down against the gun, squinting an eye to look through the scope. "Nighty night, Johnny Boy."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed tight; he knew that he couldn't watch this, and he felt his hands shake, the anticipation twisting his stomach. _What is he waiting for? Do it already, there's no saving John now,_ Sherlock thought forlornly. The only friend he'd ever really had was about to die at his feet and he could do absolutely nothing about it. Sherlock _hated _feeling helpless and powerless. Sherlock heard John moan and he opened his eye a sliver and let his eyes trail to Sebastian. His gun butt was resting against the ground and he had a scowl on his face as he stared down at the small, black phone in his hand. Another dark look passed across Seb's face before he slung his gun over his shoulder and gave Sherlock a small half smile, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

"Wrong day to die," he whispered harshly, giving John one last longing look before trotting down the alley, his gun bumping against his back.

Sherlock watched Sebastian run, his mind flying through the scene that had just passed. _Why didn't Sebastian kill John? It was obviously something he saw on his phone, must have been a text message. But from who? _Sherlock frowned and as soon as Seb turned the corner, Sherlock spun around and dropped down next to John.

John was pale and shaking; blood slowly oozed from the cut along the top of his ear and the skin of his head. It was coating his jaw and the side of his head by now, and Sherlock realised that John had already lost a good bit of blood. He flung his scarf off and pressed it against John's skull, pressing tightly. John gasped and mumbled something, but Sherlock ignored him and began to check his vitals again. His pulse was racing and his hands shook violently; he was obviously in a bit of shock.

"John," Sherlock whispered softly, prodding John's shoulder gently. "John, are you ok? I need you to say something for me John. Sebastian is gone now; I'm here and you're ok." John's eyes were closed tightly and he still didn't say anything. "John, please work with me."

"Get off of me; I'm fine," he grumbled, pushing the hand off of his shoulder. He sat up slowly and looked at Sherlock closely, blue eyes flashing.

"Are you ok?" John frowned and reached out to touch Sherlock. _No, I am not ok John. You just almost died. You're head is bleeding. You almost died. Died. _

"Hm, fine," Sherlock muttered, pulling out his phone to call an ambulance. "I'm calling an ambulance, hold on." He was about to dial the number when John reached over and knocked the phone out of his hand.

"I can just go into the surgery and Sarah can stitch me up. We don't have time for hospitals, Sherlock." Sherlock was going to argue, but watched in awe as John gritted his teeth and stood up slowly, wincing at the pain, but ignoring it and beginning to walk. John Watson never ceased to amaze him.

ɸɸɸɸ

"Alright, read me the file, ready now," John said as he reclined back in his chair, head freshly bandaged and tea in his hand. Sherlock nodded and opened up the email from Mycroft, taking a deep breath as he scanned the document quickly. "Sherlock, read it aloud _please_," John muttered with a smile on his face. Sherlock grinned and cleared his throat before beginning.

"Sebastian Moran was born in London in 1977, son of Sir Augustus Moran. He studied briefly at both Eton College and the University of Oxford before moving on to a military career. Formally of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers, serving in 2007 during the West Azerbaijan Clashes and the Blackwater Shootings before humph," Sherlock paused to chuckle. "Though there were no open scandals, he was obliged to retire from the military and return to London. Highly respected, probably Moriarty's doing; he was accepted to several clubs including The Tankerville Club and The Bagatelle Card Club before being hired by Moriarty in 2009. He was quickly recruited to the chief of Moriarty's staff and has remained Moriarty's 'favourite sniper' since around the beginning of their acquaintance." Sherlock looked up at John and shrugged, studying the doctor's expression.

"Good to know a fellow soldier was easily able to turn on a comrade, eh?" John sighed and shifted in his seat, worry creasing his brow.

"You don't have to be afraid of Sebastian, John," Sherlock whispered softly, watching John tense up.

"I'm not afraid of him," John said darkly, getting up out of his chair and heading towards the stairs.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Sherlock muttered, watching John pause with a shake of his head. He turned slowly and looked at Sherlock sadly.

"It's my fault for being so prideful; I'm sorry Sherlock. I'll see you in the morning, and really try to get some actual sleep tonight. We'll be fine for a night." _No we won't John_, Sherlock thought angrily, but he didn't voice the obvious. Moran was out to get John and he would do so; the only thing stopping him was Jim, and Sebastian wouldn't listen to his master forever, no, he liked being the one in charge, and he often got what he wanted.

**A/N: Reviews always welcome. Trying to get this put up here earlier to make up for the late post yesterday evening! I'll have the next chapter up here tomorrow, hopefully. I'm going to try really hard to stick to the chapter everyday, but we'll see. Cheers xx~ **


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey all! Thanks so much for the favourites and follows! They really help remind me that my work isn't futile and people actually do read it! This is a short, flufffy chapter, and the plot will ensue in the next one! Enjoy xx~**

Chapter Five: 

_John stared straight into those cold, hard, ice blue eyes, wincing as he could see the rifle pointed at him in his peripheral vision. Sebastian's eyes were trained on John, a hungry lust in his eyes, his large hands strong and steady against the rifle. John noticed that Seb was dressed in his military uniform, all his medals dotting his olive green colonel lieutenant uniform colourfully, the smooth fabric stretched across his chest. _

_John drew a shaky breath and glanced around him at his surroundings. They were in a large house, and everything was a startling white. John blinked against the harsh whiteness and glanced back at Sebastian. What was he doing here? He flinched as suddenly, one of Seb's hands shot out to trail down the side of John's cheek lightly, and the touch was surprisingly gentle for such a dangerous man. _

_ "Oh, John," Sebastian whispered, his voice deep and gruff, yet gentle and poetic at the same time. "I wish I didn't have to hate you so much; you really are wonderful," Sebastian murmured, bringing his face closer to John's. John started to pull away, but Seb snaked his arm around John's neck, gripping the back of the doctor's head with stern force. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, don't try to run, Dr. Watson," Seb whispered with a sly smile. John shook his head and continued to try to pull away, but Seb held on fast. "I'm truly sorry for this, Johnny Boy," Sebastian breathed into John's ear before pulling back and shoving the gun into John's stomach. John barely had time to think before Seb pulled the trigger with an explosion of sound and pain. _

John bolted upright in his bed, the scream still on his lips as he sucked in a deep breath. His shaky hands flew to his stomach and he ripped the shirt up to look at the smooth skin, feeling his abdomen over and over again, just to be sure. Once he told himself that it was just a dream and that he was fine a couple more times, he pulled himself out from between the sheets and pulled the sweaty shirt off over his head. He dropped it onto the ground and padded softly down the stairs, hoping that a cup of tea would help calm his jumping nerves. He set the kettle boiling and ran his hands through his hair several times, wishing that he would just calm down. He sat down at the small table and dropped his head next to Sherlock's microscope, feeling his eyelids getting heavy.

"Nightmare?" A voice sounded behind him. John jumped, knocking his knee on the table, cursing loudly. He whirled around to see Sherlock, wearing only his dressing gown, violin tucked under his chin. John gave Sherlock an angry look before turning to the kettle, scowling.

"It's nothing. I'm going back to bed," John grumbled as he poured the tea into a mug and began to walk towards the stairs. His hands were shaking so badly that the tea shook and shuddered in the mug, threatening to spill over the top and onto the floor.

"Ok," Sherlock said, his voice portraying little emotion.

"Go to sleep Sherlock; sorry if I woke you," John muttered, turning to look at his friend. Sherlock had the violin tucked under his chin still and he was looking at John with something like sympathy in his eyes.

"It's fine John," Sherlock murmured before closing his eyes and drawing the bow along the E string, moving his long fingers along the finger board, his fingers trembling to pull out the poignant vibrato. John smiled as he watched Sherlock play a few more seconds before turning and going up the stairs. He stood at his door listening to the haunting melody as the notes descended down the scale, getting lower and mellower. The vibrato increased in length, giving the song an even more distressing undertone, and John smiled before deciding to go into his room, leaving the door open wide.

He climbed back into bed and smiled again as the sound of the violin floated up into his room, slowly lulling him to sleep. He was half asleep when his ears picked up the fact that the melody had changed. He sat up a little straighter and tried to shake the fuzz out of his head; he knew this melody from somewhere. He sat listening for several seconds before it hit him.

Brahms Lullaby floated up through the flat and John smiled broadly as he sunk back down into his blankets, falling peacefully to sleep.

**A/N: Once again, thank you all for the support! Have a happy Saturday, and don't forget: reviews are always welcomed! Cheers xx~**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: The case mentioned in the beginning is a spin off of The Adventure of the Red Headed League by Sir Doyle and I do not own it! I'm not really feeling this chapter, and I'm sorry if you hate it... Reviews appreciated! xx~ **

Chapter Six: 

Sherlock stood stock-still in the middle of the room, staring at the client with the brilliant violet eyes. Jabez Wilson was young, 24, and was extremely handsome, and his violet eyes stayed trained on Sherlock as he paced across the floor.

"Ok," Sherlock said, eyeing the young man warily. "Start from the beginning." Sherlock stood, looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back. John had been gone for an hour and a half now, and Sherlock was starting to feel nervous worry building in his stomach.

"Alright, well, my record shop hasn't gotten many costumers lately and money has been tight. I've got an assistant, Vincent Spaulding, a Uni student, and he's a really bright chap, going down into the bottom of the store to mess around with developing his film and all that. He, uh, he likes photography, and well anyway," Jabez looked nervous, sweat was dripping down through his black hair and his hands were shaking. "Vincent showed me this ad on the computer the other day that said it was this thing for all males with interesting eye colours. You see, it was a type of club where one would go in and work and get money, and they had one open slot left and the money offered was impressive. Well, of course I was interested, so I uh, I went and I was chosen to be a part of it because of my excellent and unique irises." Jabez paused now and took a deep breath.

"Go on," Sherlock murmured.

"Right well, I went in for my first day and they sat me down in a room and I was told to copy the dictionary entries one by one, starting with A, and after four hours I would receive my £330. I went for several days and got my money each day and I made it all the way to the B's before I went in one day and a sign on the door said that the club was dissolved. Well, I went to the landlord to find out about Mr. Ross, the club leader, to find that the landlord had no idea who he was, but did remember the man with the bright green eyes and gave me a card. Well, the blasted card led me to a prosthetic knee factory! And now, I have no idea where Mr. Ross is and I could really use that money."

"Alright, thank you," Sherlock muttered absentmindedly, pulling his phone out to text John.

**Where are you? Been a while for shopping? –SH**

"Do you need anything else?" Jabez asked, his eyebrows knit.

"Hm, a description of your assistant and some pictures would be great. Email them to me," Sherlock said, pushing Jabez out the door.

"Oh, um, ok. Goo-" Sherlock shut the door in the young man's face, already pushing the stupid case out of his mind. He pulled his phone out to check and see if John had responded; he hadn't. Sherlock cursed softly and put the phone back into his pocket. _If Moriarty's got John, I will make sure that I kill his little Sebastian personally_, Sherlock thought before jumping at the slight tremble of his trouser leg. He whipped his mobile out to see the message on his phone.

**I'm fine, just talking to an old friend. –JW **

Sherlock frowned, who would that possibly be? An old army friend?

**Who? I need you to hurry home. Important. –SH**

** No one, Sherlock. I'll be home as soon as possible –JW**

Sherlock sighed and put his phone away; this was odd. Why wouldn't John tell him who he was out with? He pulled his phone out to text John again, when another message came in, not from John.

**Having fun with your little pet. I'd appreciate it if you gave us some privacy, Sherly. –JM **

Sherlock felt his muscles go slack as he slowly let his hand fall to his side, nearly dropping the phone to the ground. Moriarty had John, and there was no telling what he was doing with him.

**Don't worry. He'll come home with only a few scratches. He's been a good boy. –JM **

Sherlock threw the phone down on the couch and began to pace the flat. Moriarty had found his greatest weakness and would clearly exploit it at all times. He couldn't let John get hurt; he would never forgive himself if something happened to John, especially if it was preventable. John was Sherlock's best friend and the thought of losing him cut deep. Moriarty wouldn't just go out and kill John now, though, because Moran had tried that, and Moriarty had obviously stopped him. Jim was going to drag this game out as long as possible, and the ending was going to be far from pleasant. Sherlock shuddered and spun around to pick up his violin; he played a few notes before placing it back down again, too jittery to play or concentrate on it.

He continued to pace quickly, feet flying over the worn floorboards as he continually checked his phone. He needed to stop this, this _worry_. It was annoying and so very weak of him, because John was fine. Jim was not going to kill him, not today. Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed his temples slowly before going over to lie on the couch, hands in prayer position. Maybe if he went to his mind palace, he could calm down a bit.

He ventured into the corner reserved for John and smiled softly. John was the best man Sherlock had ever known, much better than himself. Nowhere near as intelligent, no, but John was a brave and loyal friend. He was intelligent as well, just not as much as Sherlock, and he was far from ordinary. Sherlock smiled again; he had the best friend on this earth, if only he knew how to better return the favour.

This though tugged Sherlock's mouth down into a frown, so he dismissed it and pulled his phone out, leaving his mind palace for the time being. It had been almost an hour since Jim's text and Sherlock was starting to get annoyed. He sighed and began to thumb out a text quickly.

**Mycroft, find John and get him home. Jim has him. –SH **

Sherlock hated, _hated _asking Mycroft for help, and he tried to phrase it more as a command so it was less obvious, but it was still clearly a plea for help. Moments later, he got his reply.

**I am sorry, Dearest Brother, but, Doctor Watson is fine, I assure you. –MH **

Sherlock scowled and threw his phone down. He just needed John back from Jim; then everything would be ok again.

Sherlock threw himself down onto the couch and curled up, tucking his knees into his chest tightly, burying his head into his knees. He laid like this for what seemed like forever and was even close to falling when he heard the door open slowly. Sherlock immediately shook the fuzz from his head and jumped up to face the door.

"Hello, Sherly," Jim said coolly, his arm wrapped tight around John's neck. Sherlock felt the panic rise inside of him, but he pushed it down and forced himself to be calm and collected.

"Why hello there Jim; I've missed you." Sherlock's lips turned up into a sarcastic smile as he motioned for Jim to sit in John's armchair.

"I'll leave the pet by the door, alriigghhttt?" Jim asked with a small smile, his brown eyes twinkling. Sherlock worked to keep his face a calm mask and nodded.

"Whatever you would like." Sherlock took a seat in his arm chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair.

"Gooood," Jim cooed. "Now Sherly, let's get down to business. I have a proposition for you, or an invite, rather." Jim smiled broadly. "I'm bored Sherly, and I miss you. The last time was so funnnn." Sherlock's mouth twitched ever so slightly, but he kept his eyes trained on Jim, not allowing himself to portray any emotions.

"And?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice calm and confident.

"I'd like to see you sometime. How's dinner this Friday?" Jim's mouth twitched into a full smile, winking at Sherlock devilishly.

"I'll see you then. Pick me up here when the time comes," Sherlock said, portraying little emotion. Jim smiled and clapped his hands together.

"Spleennddiiiddd," he cooed. "Now get that pet of yours cleaned up; he's a little feisty, now isn't he?" Jim bowed and blew Sherlock a kiss before exiting the door with a flourish. As soon as Jim was gone, Sherlock dropped to his knees next to John.

"Are you ok? John? What did he do to you?" Sherlock shook John's shoulder roughly, checking his vitals quickly.

"Oi, get off of me," John muttered, pushing Sherlock away. "I'm fine, Sherlock." John got up and went into the kitchen to start making tea.

"John," Sherlock said, exasperated. "Tell me what he did to you." Sherlock came up to stand behind John, watching the shorter man's shoulder tense.

"It's none of your business, but they didn't hurt me," John said softly, giving Sherlock a small smile. "It's fine, Sherlock." John gave Sherlock one more small smile before turning and going up the stairs, leaving Sherlock standing in the kitchen, frowning. Something was coming, and Sherlock needed to make sure he could protect John from it.

John had said 'they' and that means it had been Jim and Sebastian. Sherlock shuddered, who knows what those two may have done to John. He had to protect John at all costs, because Jim wasn't going to stop until he destroyed Sherlock, and John was the key. Sherlock's mouth twisted into a scowl; this was why you didn't allow someone into your heart, it became a weakness too easily. But Sherlock wasn't going to kneel over and watch as his friend was murdered, no, he would fight for John's life for as long as possible. He couldn't let John die because of him.

**Sorry if this chapter was meh. I haven't been in a good writing mood lately.. anyway, reviews are awesome and keep me motivated! Cheers xx~**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: God, I hope this makes up for the pure crap that was Chapter Six. I got really focused and was able to get this done this morning, so woo. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for all the support and reviews. xx~**

Chapter Seven: 

John sat on his bed and stared at the door, not wanting to close his eyes in fear of the images that would soon come to flood his vision. Moriarty was going to slowly break Sherlock, and to do that, he would break John first. John shuddered and squirmed down into his blankets. Sebastian Moran, the name burned like acid in his brain.

_"Come now, Johnny Boy; I'm not really all that scary am I?" _

_ "I'm not afraid of you." _

_ "Then why, Dear Watson, are you trembling?" _

_ "May I go now? I have business to attend to."_

_ "Your beloved detective can wait, Johnny; you've got me." _

_ "I don't want you, and I don't want Sherlock either. God dammit, how many times must I remind the world that I'm not actually gay?"_

_ "Tsk, tsk, tsk, Johnny Boy; I don't care what you are." _

_ "Ok?" _

_ "I'm going to have you anyway." _

John shook his head, pushing away the memory. Sebastian was dangerous, the second most dangerous man in all of London, right behind his fabulous employer. John scowled and rubbed his face with his hands. He absolutely was not afraid of Sebastian; he was just a grimy sniper for Moriarty, and John wouldn't be afraid of that, yet the memory of Seb's cold arms around his neck still seemed to be haunting him.

_"Come now, Johnny, play nice," Sebastian whined, his firm mouth dropping into a pout. _

_ "You look like an idiot when you do that, and I suggest you stick to scowling," John replied coolly, giving Sebastian a curt glance. He tried to wiggle around in the tight ropes that held him firmly fastened to the chair, but the knots were taught. _

_ "Shut up," Sebastian growled, slapping John quickly, his hand snapping out, connecting, and snapping back in the mere blink of an eye. John grimaced, but didn't call out. He was done with showing weakness in front of Jim and Sebastian. _

_ "Sebby," Jim cooed from his place in a high-backed arm chair across the room. "Don't hurt the kind Doctor; you wouldn't want to get dear Sherly's blood boiling, not yet." Jim smiled at John, giving him a mocking glance. _

_ "Sorry, Jim," Sebastian replied, giving his an employer an apologetic look. "It's just so harddd," he whined. "Why do I have to wait?" Sebastian pouted again as he ran a large, rough, yet gentle, hand across John's cheek. _

_ "You know why Sebby," Jim said, his voice coaxing. "We have to initiate the plan at just the right moment, so it'll bring both of them down." Jim's mouth twisted into a sick smile as he gazed at John, pure amusement and excitement bright in his eyes. _

_ "Fine," Sebastian growled, moving so that his mouth was right next to John's ear. "You know, Johnny, I hate you so much, yet I am extremely interested you at the same time. It's all very confusing, you see." John shuddered as Sebastian grazed the top of John's jaw, his warm lips scraping along John's earlobe greedily."You fascinate me, Doctor," Sebastian breathed into John's ear, his voice husky. John shuddered as Sebastian pressed his large, overly warm lips against his ear. _

_ "W-Why?" John asked, hoping he could distract Sebastian and keep him talking. _

_ "You're so human, Johnny. It's something we all lack," Sebastian whispered, kissing John's cheek with surprisingly tenderness. John shrank back from the embrace, disgusted thoughts running through his head. He knew that 'we' referred to Seb, Jim, and Sherlock, but Sherlock was human, more human than Moriarty would ever know. _

_ "Sherlock is human, more human than you will ever know," John spat, struggling against the ropes keeping him tied to the chair again. "He may not show it very often," John called out loudly. "But he has a heart and he loves, he really does." John was red in the face as he continued to thrash, rocking the metal chair back and forth. _

_ "Shh," Sebastian whispered, stroking John's cheek again. "Don't try to struggle, Dear Watson," Seb murmured. Then, turning to Jim sitting in the arm chair by the fire, he called out, "don't you find it funny, Jim?" _

_ "Hmm?" Jim asked, still staring into the fire, seemingly absorbed with the twisting and turning tendrils. The hungry orange arms snaking through the small, brick fire place, eager to destroy, tired of being confined were reflected in his wide, brown eyes. _

_ "I said, don't you think it's funny?" Seb called again, turning back to look at John for a moment, something like sympathy flickering through his eyes. _

_ "Do I think what is funny?" Jim asked, tearing his eyes from the flames and turning to look at Sebastian, on his knees, kneeling next to the chained doctor. _

_ "That he thinks that heartless monster actually loves him." Jim turned back to look at John, the sympathy replaced with pure joy. "Poor wrench, when will you learn?" Sebastian leaned in to John and flicked his tongue against John's ear lightly._

_ "Oh, yes," Jim said with a twinkle in his eye. "It may look like he loves you, Johnny, but he's just using you. You're just his pet." Jim smiled darkly, raising his eyebrows. _

_ "Then why are you using me against him?" John smiled smugly at Jim, knowing that he had won, but Jim just shook his head and clucked his tongue. _

_ "Everyone gets mad when they lose something useful, Johnny Boy, and that's all you are, useful." Jim smiled with a small shake of his head. "Hurry up, Sebby, the good detective is wondering where his pet is. We should return him soon." Seb's mouth pulled back down into that ridiculous pout again, and he looked at Jim pleadingly._

_ "But Jiiiiimm, can't we play with him just a bit longer? He's fun, and I can see why Sherly keeps him around." Seb ran his large hands through John's hair; the touch being once again extremely gentle and caring to belong to such an evil, awful man. _

_ "No, Sebby, hurry up now; we need to return little Johnny Boy back to his owner, and I need to ask my favourite detective out to a little dinner." Jim's mouth turned up into another awful smile, his eyes alight with a sickening excitement. _

_ "Fine," Sebastian growled as he got up off of his knees and stood in front of John, staring down at him with a grin. "I'll be quick." Sebastian swung his legs around and sat down on John's lap, leaning forwards and breathing hot air into John's face. His breath smelled like cigarettes, beer, and peppermint, and it came hot and fast into John's nose, flooding his system with the scent. _

_ "Get off of me," John growled, trying to squirm under the larger man's heavy body, his bum pressing down onto John's lap uncomfortably. "I'm not a fucking toy that you can pass around. I'm Sherlock's friend." John spat the words out, spraying spit along Sebastian's smug face. _

_ "Are you sure Johnny?" Sebastian asked with a raised eyebrow before leaning in and pressing his burning lips against John's. John squirmed and continued to try to rock the chair back and forth, but there was nothing he could do, so he sat there, completely still, anger flowing through his system as Seb had his fun. _

John shook his head again, wincing as the smell of Sebastian's breath flowed back through his system. They were wrong, utterly wrong. Sherlock did care about John, and John knew it. Sherlock had a heart, and John had seen him show it. In moments of worry or fear, it would show before he covered it up, and usually, John was the only one who ever got to see that heart, him, and possibly Mycroft.

John remembered the day in the warehouse, when he had walked in on the brother's tightly embracing and smiled. Yes, Sherlock Holmes had a bit of a heart, no matter how much he tried to push it down. Why else would he play John a lullaby and worry about John and take care of John? Why else would he fix John? The first day they met, Sherlock had come up to him after his outburst about his leg, and Sherlock had cured John. John remembered the grin on Sherlock's face when Angelo had brought the cane back, Sherlock proud to have proved his point and happy to have fixed John.

John Watson smiled and curled up under his comforter, because Sherlock Holmes had a heart, and he had given John the key.

**A/N: Reviews always welcomed and appreciated! It keeps me motivated and helps me keep writing! Have a lovely Monday and happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day to all the American's out there. Cheers xx~**


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry this chapter is so late. School and life get in the way sometimes, ew. I hope you're enjoying it, and thank you to those of you who review and follow and favourite this little fic of mine! xx~**

Chapter Eight: 

Sherlock stared at the file of Vincent Spaulding on John's laptop, squinting his eyes, trying to concentrate on the small words on the screen. He was already dressed for his "date" with Jim in a black, tight-fitting jacket, straight black dress pants, and his tight, purple, silk dress shirt underneath. His hair was combed and handsomely arranged around his face, and he smelled strongly of cologne.

Sherlock sighed, glancing at the time on the laptop, 21:17, getting late already. He thought about going upstairs and getting John to come down here and sit with him, but he decided that that was extremely selfish. John hadn't been sleeping well lately and was asleep upstairs, so Sherlock didn't want to bother him.

He glanced at the clock again, 21:25; Sherlock sighed and drummed his fingers on the table impatiently, bored. 21:27, Sherlock got up and began to pace the room, pausing to pick up his violin before deciding against it and putting it back down. 21:29, Sherlock groaned loudly and ran his hands through his hair, pushing it out of place.

"Dammit," Sherlock muttered as he looked into the mirror and busied himself with smoothing his hair back into place. 21:32, he turned away from the mirror and continued to pace, his hands shoved in his pockets. 21:35, Sherlock jumped slightly at the sound of a delicate knock on the door.

"Sherrrrrlyyy, ready for our daaatteeee?" Sherlock's mouth turned up into a sarcastic grin as he glided towards the door, opening it slowly.

"Good evening, James," Sherlock murmured, his voice low and slightly mocking. "I've been waiting for you." Jim grinned, his eyes widening.

"Sorry Sherly, I've been busyyy. Daddy's ready now, are you?" Jim grinned again, winking at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded and bowed sardonically.

"Extremely," Sherlock said as he pulled on his coat and winded his scarf around his neck. He walked out the door past Jim, giving him a mocking smile as he passed, and he could hear Jim whistling as he walked down the stairs. He paused and turned around to stare at the little man; Jim actually looked excited and maybe a little happy. "Rather excited, aren't we?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he opened the door and stepped out into the cold air.

"Oh, quite so, actually," Jim murmured, a genuine smile stretching across his face, looking oddly out of place on the face that usually contained such evil anger and hate. Sherlock shook his head and turned to call a cab. Jim actually seemed to think that this was going to be fun. Sherlock laughed internally at the thought; Jim Moriarty was a very interesting man.

When the cab pulled up, Sherlock opened the door and ushered Jim in, ducking into the cab after Jim had scooted into his seat.

"Someone still seems excited," Sherlock said, staring straight ahead as they drove.

"Of course I am," Jim said, his voice high pitched as he smiled at Sherlock, something almost devilish residing in the wide brown eyes. Sherlock just nodded and smoothed his jacket down, settling back comfortably into the cab's seat. "Do you want to know where we're going tonight, Sherly?" Jim's eyebrows arched in excitement as he stared at Sherlock, leaning against Sherlock's arm.

"Sure," Sherlock replied coolly, wrinkling his nose at the sharp smell of Jim's exotic cologne.

"An extravagant French restaurant that I bought a while ago," Jim said grinning. "I was going to take you to France, but I decided that you wouldn't like that." He paused and looked at Sherlock closely. "You know, Brother Holmes would like it, and so would Daddy and Mummy Holmes. Why are _you _the different Holmes? What made you become so unlike them?" Sherlock tensed up; his past was one thing he _never _discussed, not even with John.

"I have no idea," he said quickly, his voice low. "I was always the freak, didn't fit in from the beginning." Sherlock turned away to face the window, staring out into the velvety blackness of the blurring streets, not allowing his face to portray any of the emotions bubbling up inside of himself. Why was he telling James Moriarty of all people this? Sherlock shook his head and sunk down into the worn leather seat, wrapping his coat around himself tightly.

"Oh Sherlock," Jim breathed, his voice low and sympathetic. "I know exactly how you feel." Sherlock just nodded and tightened his jaw.

"I'm sure you do," he replied coldly.

"Aw, Sherly," Jim began softly, running a warm hand down Sherlock's cheek. "We're a lot alike, you and I. Both trying to solve the Final Problem, now aren't we?" Jim's hand trailed down to brush across the corner of Sherlock's mouth before pulling away, and Sherlock turned to follow the hand, tearing his eyes from the swiftly passing world outside the window.

"Final Problem?" Sherlock asked softly, so softly the question was almost unintelligible.

"You'll find out soon enough," Jim replied, equally as quiet. "Just have patience, Sherlock Holmes." Jim's voice sounded low and throaty, maybe even a little sad, and Sherlock frowned. Final Problem, what was the Final Problem? There were lots of problems in the world, but what would be defined as the _Final _Problem?

Sherlock pushed the thought out of his mind as the cab pulled up along a curb in front of a large, beautiful building. Twinkling lights decorated the trees along the walk way, and the large, cherry maple door was glossy and looked beautiful in the faint light of the lanterns hanging by the door. Sherlock rubbed his hand along the glossy wood and mused to himself at how expensive it must have been to buy this place. Nothing less than exquisite for James Moriarty, though.

"Gorgeous isn't she? And you haven't even been in yet," Jim said proudly as he walked up behind Sherlock and placed his hand over the top of Sherlock's resting on the door. "And it's all ours." Jim grinned as he pushed the door open, going in with a spring in his step.

Sherlock stood in the cold air for a few seconds longer, rubbing his hand where Jim's small hand had rested. James Moriarty was certainly very interesting.

"Come along Sherly," he heard Jim call from inside the spacious restaurant and Sherlock sighed, heading in towards the sound of Jim's voice and the smell of food.

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"Wasn't that just _delicious_?" Jim asked him, leaning back in his chair with a light smile on his lips. Sherlock shrugged and pushed his still mostly full plate away from him a bit.

"I wasn't really hungry," Sherlock replied calmly, watching Jim's face darken slightly.

"I set this up especially for you, Sherlyyy. The least you can do is eat some for Daddy." Jim's lips pulled down into a slight, mocking pout. "Pleaseeee?" Jim pulled his lips down into what was probably supposed to be a "puppy dog face" and looked at Sherlock pleadingly.

"I'm simply not hungry, and oh, look at the time, it's getting late," Sherlock said coolly, glancing at the time on his phone. 23:10, Sherlock was ready to leave. He'd indulged Jim's little game, going out to dinner with him, pretending to be his date, and now Sherlock was getting tired of pretending.

"Oh, you're not leaving just yetttt. We haven't gotten to the best part yet." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Jim shook his head. "Don't say a fucking thing, Sherly; I'm here to have my fun!" Jim shouted loudly, his voice echoing eerily throughout the basically empty restaurant. Aside from the cooks and a few waiters, it was vacant, and Sherlock laughed to himself, enjoying Jim's dedication to being thorough with his games.

"Oh come now," Sherlock said, his voice annoyed. "I'm done playing along with this." Sherlock sighed and started to get up. "I'll only play along so much, Jim." Sherlock pulled his coat on and began to twist his scarf on as well, but stopped as he took in Jim's body language and facial expression.

Jim was slumped in his seat, a devastated look apparent on his face as he stared down at his lap, not realising that Sherlock was watching him. Sherlock stared at Jim for a few seconds longer before clearing his throat. Jim's head snapped up and his desolation was quickly replaced with the usual mask of sarcasm and crude humour.

"Have a nice night, Sherly," Jim cooed, giving Sherlock a cynical, curt grin. "Oh how I've enjoyed this little game of ours. It's going to solve it, you know. The Final Problem; it will be solved." Jim winked at Sherlock and blew him a kiss as he tipped his chair up on its back legs. "Send the pet my love," Jim said, waving Sherlock off. Sherlock just glared at Jim and walked briskly out of the restaurant, hailing a cab from the curb out front.

Sherlock enjoyed the silence of the ride, and went over the night slowly in his head. Jim had been so happy and genuine, and it made Sherlock wonder if maybe, just maybe, this hadn't been a part of his game after all. Sherlock sighed deeply and pulled his phone out. 00:03, Sherlock felt a wave of something he doesn't often feel: guilt.

No, he did not like James Moriarty. He didn't like anyone, not romantically at least, but it definitely seemed like James Moriarty was interested in him, and romantically so. Sherlock shuddered.

00:12, Sherlock realised that whatever he was dealing with was something much larger than he had originally thought.

00:18, Sherlock arrived at 221b and went inside to ponder the Final Problem; the end of the game.

**A/N: Reviews still always welcomed and appreciated! Have a lovely rest of your day! Cheers xx~**


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